Tales of Enticement Volume 2

By Anthony Hulse

This is the second series of short stories of various genres. These tales I wrote between 2003 and 2010. I abandoned short story writing to concentrate on novels, and with suggestions from friends, decided to publish them. I experimented with genres unfamiliar to me, including comedy, romance and drama. The book mainly comprises of horror and thrillers; subjects now second nature to me. Some of the stories concern human emotion, and just how cruel society can be. I hope you enjoy the book and would appreciate any feedback or reviews.

Thank you.
Anthony Hulse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326511654

Book preview

Tales of Enticement Volume 2

Tales of Enticement

(Volume II)

Anthony Hulse

Copyright

Copyright@Anthony Hulse2015

ISBN: 978-1-326-51165-4

Cover design: Frentusa@iStock

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Foreword

This is the second series of short stories of various genres. These tales I wrote between 2003 and 2010. I abandoned short story writing to concentrate on novels, and with suggestions from friends, decided to publish them. I experimented with genres unfamiliar to me, including comedy, romance and drama. The book mainly comprises of horror and thrillers; subjects now second nature to me. Some of the stories concern human emotion, and just how cruel society can be. I hope you enjoy the book and would appreciate any feedback or reviews.

Thank you.

Anthony Hulse.

Psychometry

Life had not been sweet for Rosie Sinclair. Her early academic skills hinted at a brilliant future for the intelligent girl. The University lecturers gloated over her to strive for the ultimate achievement, and encouraged her in her advancement. She could have anything she wanted, they relayed to her, but Rosie did not share their ambition. All she ever wanted was to be an ordinary woman, with an ordinary husband, with ordinary children, and living an ordinary life.

What Mother Nature had so generously bestowed on her was negated by her unnatural and uninvited gift. The gift, as portrayed by countless qualified psychologists, psychoanalysts, and psycho anything else you can care to name, seemed like an albatross around her neck. Psychometry they called it; the ability to see things through given objects.

As a child, Rosie failed to acknowledge her powers. Were not all children like this, she used to ask herself? Occasionally, she would pick up a child’s ball or toy for instance, and visualise that child’s occurrences from the past. The other children mocked her and branded her a freak.

After word spread about her gift, the media circus and the so-called therapists moved in, and she became a celebrity overnight. The police took the opportunity to exploit Rosie’s talents, and recruited her to solve numerous crimes. She became the human bloodhound.

Rosie, one day decided she wanted to leave London. She wished to blend into society; melt away from the prying hypocrites and glory-seeking specialists. Her parents, though distraught at her decision, understood her reasons for leaving.

Her new life would begin shortly after her twenty-second birthday. She had an aunt in Cornwall, recently widowed. What better place to secrete, than the wide expanses of Cornwall. Her aunt welcomed her and promised never to mention the gift

In Trewithian, Rosie seemed just another ordinary girl; a welcome addition to the normal, everyday life in this small town. Rosie felt happier than ever. She met a local lad, and she cherished every spare moment she had with Ronnie. True, she still had the visions, but the lives of these gentle, cultivated people offered her no threat, as the apparitions were of trips to the seaside and jaunts in the countryside.

Rosie found work, not as a doctor or a scientist, as her lecturers hoped, but as a barmaid. She soon established herself in this tranquil community, and for the first time in her life, she seemed glad to be alive. Rosie's popularity expanded with everyday, as she became a sort of agony aunt of the Golden Pheasant. The punters would bring over their uncompleted crosswords to the bar, or perhaps their tax returns for Rosie to fill in for them.

You be too clever for this job, missie, they would say.

Rosie appeared plain looking in every way. Some say her hazel eyes were too close together and her nose too wide. Rosie promised that one day she would have her crooked teeth straightened. One feature she adored was her long, straight-auburn hair. Before going to bed, she would make a point of passing the hairbrush through it one hundred times.

Yes, Rosie seemed finally content. She had acquired her obscurity from the inquisitive, uncaring society. However, her tranquillity did not last for long. A chance encounter with a customer was about to change her life forever.

One glorious summer evening, Ronnie, this strapping farmhand with long, dark hair, captured her heart. He sprawled across the bar, in deep conversation with Rosie, attempting to woo the city girl.

A scruffy looking man entered the Golden Pheasant, looked around the bar, and people turned their heads away from him. He seemed an odd-looking, chubby character; cock-eyed and with protruding teeth. So may freckled covered his pale face. He wore an old combat jacket, a soiled white tee shirt, and tattered jeans.

Oh no, exclaimed Ronnie, when he saw the reflection of the character through the mirror behind the bar.

Rosie frowned as she watched the forlorn stranger shuffle towards her. And what can I do for you, sir?

The stranger wiped his runny nose and smiled, not the smile of someone with an ounce of acumen. A glass of cider. It seemed a demand, rather than a request.

Rosie poured the cider and placed the glass on the bar. That will be two pounds and thirty pence, please.

The bemused looking man picked up the cider and emptied the glass in one greedy swallow.

Ronnie watched Rosie and tried hard to not laugh.

She wondered what amused her boyfriend, and frowned at him. The stranger turned away and shuffled towards the exit.

Excuse me, please… Excuse me! shouted Rosie.

The odd-looking man turned to her.

Rosie repeated her request. Two pounds and thirty pence, please?

He smiled at her, a pathetic smile. Oh, I’m so sorry. He removed his wallet and fumbled inside for the money. A multitude of coins fell to the ground and Ronnie giggled loudly.

Rosie tried to contain herself, realising the joke. This must be the village idiot. He scrambled on all fours, collecting the coins and mumbling to himself. Eventually, he struggled to his feet and regarded Rosie, a blank stare on his face.

Here, let me help you, she said, holding out her hand for the wallet.

A surge of power ran through her body when she grasped the wallet. She gasped and stepped back, knocking some of the bottles over.

Rosie, are you all right? asked Ronnie, rushing to her aid.

Vivid-coloured, flashing lights invaded her peaceful sanctuary. Rosie saw children’s faces, intermittently paraded in her thoughts. She slumped to the ground holding her head. She now stood in a large circular room; a room with a red light projecting sporadically on the white walls. She moved around the room, her eyes fixed on several objects set out on the rickety shelf. She edged closer towards the objects and saw they were bowls; tiny bowls with lighted candles inside them. The flickering flames blended with the red light, giving off an aura not unlike Santa’s grotto, only this was not Santa's grotto.

She now moved just inches from the bowls, and the horror crept in uninvited, like a stab in the heart. She made out the tiny faces adorning the bowls and screamed.

When she came round, several people stood over her.

Rosie, are you okay? asked Ronnie.

Ronnie passed her a glass of water and she drank thirstily. She looked at the wallet in her hand and realised her nightmare had begun once more.

******

Rosie seemed unusually quiet that night, sitting by the fireside and sipping her cocoa. Her Aunt Helen left her gazing at the television and made her way to bed, content in the knowledge that Rosie had recovered from her blackout.

Rosie's eyes focused on the gyrating flames of the coal fire, and she shuddered at the afterthought of the images. The strange man had left the Golden Pheasant unnoticed, and without his wallet.

The newsreader on the television distracted her. He reported about another child abduction in Cornwall. The photograph of a ten-year old boy projected onto the screen, and Rosie gasped, crying loudly. She had seen the child before, in her vision. Eight children had now vanished from Cornwall in the last two years.

Rosie closed her eyes and tried to envisage the gruesome scene again, but without the wallet, she appeared helpless. Ben, the landlord of the Golden Pheasant had placed the wallet in his safe, until the man decided to return for it.

Rosie slept very little that night. She acknowledged she could not overlook her ordeal. Rosie reported for work that next afternoon, insisting she was fine. Her uncertainty conflicted with her emotions. Should she go to the police and report her findings, no doubt projecting her back into the public spotlight, or should she ignore it, and feel the guilt, as another young victim is added to the macabre shelf? Rosie decided on a third option. She would find this house of horror herself.

Are you sure you be okay, Rosie? asked Ben, cleaning a glass.

I’m fine… Tell me, that man last night…the one who left his wallet. Who is he?

You mean Barney Chapman? Oh, he’s harmless enough. Not all there though. Not firing on all cylinders, if you get my meaning.

Where does he live, Ben?

Oh, he lives with his brother, George. They have a small farmhouse in St Austell.

So, why does he come in here?

He be an attendant at St Anthony’s.

St Anthony’s?

Yeah, the lighthouse. You must pass it everyday on the way to your aunt’s cottage.

A lighthouse! She saw in her mind the rotating, red light. Ben, give the wallet to me. I'll drop it off on the way home this evening.

The lighthouse is closed to the public, Rosie. It’s been closed for many a year now.

Is there access to the lighthouse from the land?

Aye. There’s a footpath leading up to the lighthouse, but there’s a restriction on it, due to foot and mouth disease... Besides, Barney is only in the lighthouse occasionally. It’s automatic, you know.

Rosie remained adamant. I'll drop the wallet off. If he’s not there, I’ll give it back to you first thing in the morning.

Well, if you be sure, Rosie?

I’ve never been so sure in my life.

******

The sun sat low in the sky, as Rosie struggled against the strong sea breeze. The gusty conditions attempted to prevent her from making progress along the rocky footpath, which led towards the lighthouse. She tasted the saltwater on her lips, and ducked beneath the foot and mouth warning sign. The shrill scream of the pristine, white seagulls and the breaking of the tide on the rocks accompanied her on her way.

Rosie stopped at another sign, warning of no access to the public. She looked up at the giant, white structure, protruding from the rocks like an enormous, phallic symbol. When she saw the waves crash against the lighthouse, she wished she had checked the tide times, as this is the last place on earth she wanted to be stranded.

She gripped the cold iron railing and looked up towards her destination, before advancing cautiously. Rosie climbed the steps, trying not to look down, her fear of heights forgotten for now. Her legs ached with the long climb, and at last, she reached the door to the lighthouse.

Rosie fumbled in her shoulder bag for the can of mace, and for some foolish reason she shouted. Hello, Is anyone at home? She waited for a reply that did not come. Her upbringing and polite nature compelled her to shout again. Hello. Anybody?

She tried the door, half expecting and hoping it would be locked, but surprisingly it was unlocked. The coldness of the interior of the lighthouse bit into her bones, and the rotating, red light reflected around the room.

Rosie closed the door and advanced cautiously, experiencing a feeling of deja vous. The musty and putrid odour of the white room repulsed her, and she covered her nostrils with one hand and held the mace at the ready with the other. Her eyes traced where she had looked the day before, and expected the worst. The room, although dimly lit, offered just illumination. The rickety shelf with the candlelit bowls would not leave her thoughts.

Rosie smiled slightly, as if to reassure herself. Perhaps they were novelty candleholders. That's it! She would have a closer look and no doubt laugh when she realised her mistake.

Rosie advanced towards the objects, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, as if she walked a tightrope. She swore she could hear her heartbeat accelerating when she halted inches away from the bowls, her lips quivering uncontrollably. Her cold hands reached out for one of the candleholders, and she felt the fleshy substance as she brought it close to her face. It contained the face of a young child…a girl. The eyes were open and appeared to plead for help. Rosie sobbed, noticing the rough-cut marks, where the top of the head had been hacked away. She replaced the skull on the shelf carefully, as if not to hurt the child.

She sobbed uncontrollably, imagining the sad chorus of the lifeless victims joining in. The red light lit up the faces intermittently, as if introducing each child to Rosie. The shadow on the wall interrupted her mourning, and she felt a warm trickle run down her leg. She heard his breathing, and her hands trembled when she turned to face a grinning Barney Chapman, the saliva hanging from his lips.

She shook her head, unable to speak, and attempted to focus on the cock-eyed, drooling monster.

Why have you come here, missy? quizzed Barney.

I’ve b-b- brought your wallet back, she stuttered.

The conversation, she realised seemed pointless. She had ventured into his den of horror, and she had to react swiftly if she wanted to leave there alive.

The obese Barney took a step towards her, and she instinctively sprayed the mace into his face. He screamed loudly, a childlike scream. He fell to his knees and Rosie ran for the door. She heard Barney whimpering when he struggled to his feet and made after her, his hands vigorously rubbing at his stinging eyes.

Rosie heard herself breathing heavily, and jerked open the door, the welcome air refreshing her. She slipped on the grimy surface and looked back to see Barney squinting, his red eyes trying hard to focus on her.

Bad, bad lady… You hurt Barney!

She scrambled to her feet and kicked out, Kung-Fu style, connecting with his midriff. He lost his balance and fell backwards, hard against the railing. Rosie watched in shock, as the big man toppled over the railings, disappearing from view. She dashed to the railing and peered down at the rocks, in time to see Barney’s once menacing frame crash against the rocks below. She gazed at his lifeless body as the sea around him turned red, before it washed him away to the depths of hell.

Rosie appeared confused. Her options now did not appeal to her. If she reported the incident, the police would no doubt ask how she knew of the lighthouse. She felt t she owed it to the children, but her apparent crime made her hesitant. She pondered, watching the battered body thrown around by the angry sea.

She realised she still had the wallet, and decided to return it to Ben, with the excuse that nobody was at the lighthouse. She felt devious and cold-hearted, acknowledging that Ben would no doubt have to visit the lighthouse and experience the horror of what she had witnessed. She made her decision.

******

Three days passed since the death of Barney, and Rosie lived on the edge. Her nerves suffered, and she expected the worst when watching the news flashes. Barney’s body had not yet been discovered, and Rosie seemed uncertain whether to laugh or cry. She had erased every trace of her being at the lighthouse, carefully wiping the door handle. She hinted often at Ben to return the wallet, hoping she did not make it too obvious. He always responded, I'll get round to it.

Ronnie noticed a change in her, as she tried without success to behave in a normal fashion. Unable to sleep; the bags beneath her eyes bore testament to this.

    Not many customers frequented the Golden Pheasant that evening. Rosie relaxed on a barstool, her mind in another galaxy. The door opened, and she felt the cool breeze against her face, bringing her back to reality.

A large, stocky man wearing a flat cap , donkey jacket, and soiled trousers entered the bar. His face looked familiar to Rosie. He took off his cap and coat, hanging them carefully on the peg. He approached the bar and Rosie stared into the not so handsome, freckled face. His lank, greasy hair, he combed back, Teddy Boy style, and looked in serious need of a conditioner. He had a slight turn in his eye, and his yellow teeth when he smiled, reminded Rosie of a piano.

I’ll be having a pint of cider, missie?

The request never registered with the starry-eyed barmaid.

Excuse me, is anyone at home? A pint of cider, please?

Rosie proceeded to pour the cider and heard a voice behind her. It belonged to Ben.

George, long time no see. How are you doing?

Okay, I suppose, Ben. Listen, have you seen our Barney recently? The shit hasn't been home now for three days.

Yes, he was here earlier in the week. In fact, I was coming out to the lighthouse. You see, Barney left his wallet here.

The bastard, growled George.

Rosie pretended to ignore the two men as she cleaned a glass.

Is something wrong, George? asked Ben.

The large man focused on the wallet. The fat bastard! It isn’t his wallet. I wondered what happened to it… Let me take a look?

Rosie began to shake violently, feeling her legs turn to jelly.

George smiled. Aye, that’s mine all right. Just wait until I get my hands on him.

As if in slow motion, Rosie dropped